


Hourglass

by voodoochild



Category: Ashes to Ashes
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Corsetry, Cunnilingus, F/M, Mirrors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-23
Updated: 2010-08-23
Packaged: 2017-10-11 05:25:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Never let someone who lived through the Victorian era pick out your clothes, unless you enjoy corsets. Luckily, Alex learns that she enjoys them quite a bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hourglass

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in a larger AU in which Alex wakes up in 3.01 to Keats in her hospital room instead of Gene and thus, "turns right", if you will. At this point, it's about six months after what would have been 3.05, things have gone very differently than canon, and Alex has been working for Keats so long, she's developed quite a bit of Stockholm Syndrome. About three months prior to "Get Your Stroll On, Baby" and about seven months after this universe splits off in 3.01.
> 
> Written for kink_bingo for the "mirrors"/Free Square prompt. Much love to **thatyourefuse**, for co-enabling this universe (honestly, it's all her fault) and being my partner-in-porn. Also to **Petra**, for insisting this be written and for providing the rest of the audience.

_"The more sand that has escaped from the hourglass of our life, the clearer we should see through it."_ \- Niccolo Machiavelli

*****

He's staring.

"Can I help you, Jim?" she asks, not even bothering to turn around, and he laughs. It's got more warmth to it than his usual bemused chuckles, and he rounds her desk to lean against it, looking down at her.

"Oh, nearly always," he replies, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "It's been six months, you know. I thought we were due for a celebration."

It takes her a moment, but she realizes what he's getting at. "Never counted you as a man worried about milestones."

"Forget one anniversary for the wrong woman, and you'll never live it down. Besides, you're special."

And isn't _that_ an intriguing story? She'll have to remember to ask him later, when he's in a storytelling mood, because he's fascinating. Sit him down with a bottle of wine and no impending cases, and he'll talk for hours. You just need to ask the right questions and hope the criminals of London take the night off long enough to enjoy the results. She thinks he might've been an Irishman in another life.

"I didn't know I rated so highly," she teases, leaning back in her chair. "What did you have in mind?"

He snags the arm of her chair and pulls her closer, brushing his leg against hers, and hiking her skirt up in the process. Let it never be said he isn't a man of opportunity.

"Do you trust me, Alex?" he asks, even though he knows the answer.

"You know I do," she says, and he grins at her, that devious little smile that makes her stomach flip. They try to keep a lid on the whole flirting-while-at-work thing, but she's fairly sure half of CID had known immediately when they'd first slept together. And well, there's no one around to complain about it right now.

He kisses her cheek, then whispers into her ear. "Then I'll see you at mine in a half hour. I have a surprise for you. Promise you'll seriously consider it when you see what it is?"

Well, he hasn't done anything she's objected to yet. Christ, is she ever _not_-objecting to his ideas - he has a seriously filthy imagination and a complete lack of shame hidden under those grey suits, in addition to being bloody fantastic in bed.

"Promise," she says, and doesn't miss his pleased little shiver.

******

True to her word, she's on Aldgate Street ringing his doorbell at half-past eleven, and hears a muffled "it's open!" from inside. She walks inside, enjoying the blast of heat that meets her. It's bloody freezing out, and she's never appreciated his affinity for hotter temperatures more. He's banging around in the kitchen, so she kicks off her heels and perches on the arm of the couch. She isn't at his flat often - they're usually at hers, it's closer to Whitechapel and the station.

Proper is the word that comes to mind. The furniture looks like it's come out of a catalogue, perfectly-positioned without a speck of dust or a hint of use on it. Comfortable, yes, especially the black leather couch and the bronze-upholstered chairs, but unnerving. A few scattered portraits, among them a gorgeous Botticelli print in his guest room and a beautiful Dore print in his own room. There are personal touches - letters on his desk, bookshelves of some inherited first-editions, a surprisingly well-stocked kitchen - but on the whole, it's barely lived-in.

She can't really throw stones, though, considering it had taken her forever to buy something for the express purpose of sprucing up her flat in Fenchurch. He's only been in the area for a little over a year - he'd been in the States a few years back, apparently doing some liason work, and was over in Blackfriars before being assigned to Fenchurch. He never really accumulated much in the way of possessions, and neither had she; it had barely taken her a day to pack up her flat before she moved.

Probably a good sign, though - it had been a clean break. A small party at Luigi's, just to let her and Shaz say goodbye to Chris and Viv and Terry and Bammo and Poirot. Gene hadn't come, nor had she expected him to - they'd never been close and he hasn't been the same since Ray.

She tries not to think about that.

"Hello there, love," he says, appearing out of the kitchen with a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, which he hands to her. "Go somewhere?"

She shakes her head, accepting the wine. "Nowhere special. Now, what's this surprise you've got?"

"You know what they say about curiosity," he says, sitting down beside her and loosening his tie, leaving it draped around his neck.

"That it's an excellent quality to have in one's Inspectors."

"Well, yes, that and your spectacular legs."

She's never going to get used to that - the totally random flattery after years of answering to a sodding brand of champagne. She can barely remember why she'd ever thought it appropriate. What Jim has given her is a straightforward adult relationship where it isn't just sex (though they'd be fine with that) or purely work-related trust. He's never been shy about telling her exactly which parts of her body he likes best, waxing poetic on her eyes, back, and legs, though, as he says, you can't very well ask a man to choose one part over the whole. It's an honest sort of ogling, and well, she _does_ have spectacular legs.

"Do you have plans for me and my spectacular legs?" she asks, grinning and sipping at her wine.

"Remember our conversation about history the other night? You were interrogating me on my minor at university and I was speculating just how truly excellent you'd look in a proper Victorian corset?"

Oooh, does she ever. It had been one of their "let me get the feeling back into my limbs and then we'll go for round three" chats, with her facedown in her sheets and him idly tracing patterns on her skin. She can't quite remember how they'd gotten onto the topic of Victorian history, corsetry, and women's figures through the ages. She'd gotten him rather jealous by mentioning the cat costume for that hideous party CID had crashed.

"I do. And?"

There's a box lying on one of the end tables. She'd almost missed it in the dark, but he picks it up, setting it on his lap and carefully lifting the top off. Inside is a beautiful ivory corset and what looks like a linen dress.

Well. This is new. And different. They've never done the dressing-up, costume-kink thing before.

"I'd actually ordered this for my aunt's collection," he says, stroking a finger over the front busking and looking sidelong at her. "She's a curator at the Stratford Dress Conservatory, and it's a vintage Victorian corset. But I stand by what I said before - you would look breathtaking in one, and I'd very much like to see it."

He doesn't have an aunt. No question of that, but she forgives him the lie.

She uncrosses her legs, turning to face him. "All right. What do I do?"

It's absolutely ridiculous, but she feels a chill, like someone's just walked over her grave. Chalk it up to the anticipation of a new experience - and oh, she _knows_ that look of his. The one that promises to take her apart and make her enjoy every bit of it, that he'll take her as far as she'll let him. She's no blushing virgin, but she seriously wants to know where he'd managed to dispose of every last scrap of his shame.

"Stand up."

It's his topvoice, the one he only breaks out on rare occasions - he claims it's only when she needs it, but she knows that if that were true, she'd never let him stop. He uses it to reinforce special occasions (the first time she'd let him handcuff her, the first time he'd spanked her, the first time they'd fucked in his office in Whitechapel), and consciously reins it in. She's heard hints of it when he interrogates suspects, hears it slip out under the Estuary, and it makes the hair stand up on the back of her neck every time.

She complies - of course she complies - and he nods his approval. "Good girl. Take a breath, Alex, all right? Just breathe and listen to what I'm telling you." Breathes in and out, feeling her pulse slow down from its hammering. "Walk over to the window and draw the blinds."

Easy enough, and she does so. They close with a soft swish, and she turns around, waiting expectantly.

"Strip," he says, and oh, that's why he'd asked her to draw the blinds.

Smart of him. She's more comfortable now, knows no one will be looking in, even if they could see into his second-floor flat. She's already said she'll do as he asks, and that this is a gift for him as much as it is for her. She looks over at him. He's smiling encouragingly at her, and she flings caution to the wind and decides that she may as well go for it. It's not as if he hasn't seen her naked before.

Her blouse is the first target. She slides the buttons free, bottom to top, shrugging out of it and watching the corner of his mouth quirk up at the pink bra she's wearing under her blue shirt. Next is her skirt, slowly teasing out the zip, shimmying it down her legs and showing off for him. Knowing he likes this bit the best, she steps out of it, then turns around and bends over to pick it up. Shakes out the wrinkles and places it next to her shirt. She doesn't have to see him to hear him shifting on the couch, and knows he's enjoying the show.

"Enough?" she asks, turning back around with her hands on her hips.

He shakes his head. "Bra too. Leave the knickers where they are, but you can take off the suspenders."

She saunters over to him, resting one leg in the space between his knees and brushing her toes over his groin. "Or you could."

"Bloody tease," he groans, pulling her down for a kiss and ignoring her presumption. "You're lucky I have better plans for the evening, or I'd have you here and now."

"Ooh, promises," she purrs.

He runs his hand up her leg, flicking open the clasp on the suspenders. Just to drive her crazier - as crazy as she's driving him - he takes his time removing her nylons, rolling them slowly down her legs. He finishes one leg, then switches to the other and teases her just as much. Leans down to kiss the bend of her knee, and then removes her suspender belt. He looks up at her, pointedly not touching her further.

"Your turn," he says, eyes at her bra level. "You won't be needing it."

"Sure about that?" she laughs.

He doesn't, and raises an eyebrow. She shivers as she unsnaps her bra, dropping it to the floor and leaving her only in her pink knickers. Jim licks his lips, and picks up the corset.

"Oh, sweetheart, this is going to be good."

*****

He gets to his feet, leading her through his flat and into the bedroom, and oh, that's where he's going with this. He's moved the full-length mirror from the corner where it had been gathering dust to directly opposite the bed. Mirrors are excellent; she still shivers thinking about the first time they'd fucked in her old flat, their reflection in her mirrored headboard, the way he'd made her watch as he put his mouth to her and she'd begged for him. She'd felt exposed, startlingly filthy, next to his clothed body. It's not that he _doesn't_ undress, it's just that it seems that every really good sexual encounter involves him systematically taking her apart while still remaining mostly-clothed.

And it seems that he's got a similar intention now, though he does remove his shoes, belt, trousers, and button-down shirt, leaving him in vest and boxers. One of these days, she's going to wheedle her way into dressing him up (jeans and a worn tee shirt, she has designs on making him slum it while she's in heels and a suit), but today is not going to be it.

"You love it when I watch myself," she says, standing in front of the mirror. Cups her breasts, fingers running over her own tightened nipples and down her stomach. "Is that what you want now? Me to watch what you do?"

He laughs softly, coming up behind her and replacing her hands with his, the corset box lying by his side on the bed. "Partly."

"Not entirely?"

"Have you ever worn a corset?" he asks. "Not one of those flimsy modern things, plastic boning and polyester stitching, underwire doing most of the work. One that's pure silk and cloth and whalebone, steel busk fastenings in the front and leather lacing up the back?"

"Not a whalebone. It was a black cotton overbust, no laces, just the busking in the front. Does that count, you inveterate clothing snob?"

Jim grins, kissing her shoulder, fingers drawing tight little circles on her nipple. She can feel him against her arse, half-hard, and she grinds back to hear him hiss through his teeth. His hands settle at her waist, gripping tightly, mimicking the garment she's about to put on.

"It doesn't count unless you've been laced. Did someone have to lace you into that costume?" She shakes her head and he rests his head against hers, mouth right next to her ear. "Then no. What I'm going to do is tighten each lace, one by one, until I decide it's tight enough, and watch you try and breathe. It's a bitch, you know, trying to get enough air in your lungs and still retain that tiny little waist. You're going to look amazing, I promise."

This is it, this is the last out he's giving her. Her one chance to say "no, I don't want to do this", and have him kiss her forehead, put away the corset, and have excellent but less kinky sex. She knows he won't think any less of her if she does so. She's said no before, and he usually respects her boundaries.

She doesn't know why that surprises her.

"All right, how do we start?" she asks.

And he's lit up like it's Christmas and all his birthdays at once (and when _is_ his birthday? She doesn't think she's ever asked), reaching for the linen dress.

"Chemise first, yes, that's it, over the head."

He helps her slip it on, tying the lace around the neckline snugly across her chest. He reaches down and twangs her knicker elastic, and she shoves at him in retaliation, taking them off. The linen is old-fashioned, but soft, and she knows enough about corsets to be glad she's got a chemise, else she'd be covered from tits to arse in bright red bruises. The chemise falls to her knees, and looking at herself in the mirror, her 80's hoops and beads are incongruous against the soft feminine garment. She pulls her earrings off and Jim smiles in appreciation, lifting her hair off her neck and unfastening her necklace. He drops it onto the bedside table, then takes her earrings and places them beside the necklace.

She watches him in the mirror, picking up the corset and turning to her. "You might want to get on the bed for this bit, Alex. You'll need something to brace against."

A shiver goes down her spine and she kneels on the foot of the bed. The polished wood of the bedframe is smooth against her hands, and she feels deliciously exposed - someone at the head of the bed could probably see right up her dress, and her breasts are barely confined by the drawstring. She doesn't feel like Alex, either, and she'll probably feel even less like herself when she has the corset on.

He kneels behind her, stroking her hair back, and kissing the base of her neck. Fitting the corset around her, he urges her to lean over slightly to fit her breasts into the bodice of the corset, then threads the laces through the top two eyelets. She's never been laced into a corset before, and she can feel her breathing speed up at the feel of the boning against her chest, never mind that it's barely _on_, at this point.

"Listen to me," Jim says, low and calming against her ear. "Breathe, all right? Deep breaths now, get as much air into your lungs as you need. I won't start lacing until you're a bit steadier."

"You're being ridiculous," she says, laughing nervously.

He crosses the lacings over each other, pulling firmly enough so that she can feel the corset start to press just under her breasts. Her breath goes out in a huff. "I'm being careful, and what's more, I'm starting you off quite slow. Shallow breath in now -" She does so, and this time, she has enough air to withstand the second pull of the laces, one set down from where he started. "Good girl."

She shivers, because now he's playing dirty pool. You really can't get much more controlling than deciding when another person is going to breathe, and that little bit of praise is going right to her cunt. It's even worse when she looks at herself in the mirror - wide, hazy eyes, breasts spilling out of the top of the ivory corset, linen dress riding up her thighs. And Jim behind her, kissing her shoulder and flicking his dark gaze up to where she's studying herself.

"Told you, didn't I?" A small movement of his hand and the strings pull tighter, cinching her waist in another centimeter or so. He smiles, tugs her closer and rests his hand just at the bend of her hip. "You were made for this. Look at yourself, how your body's changing. Look how small your waist's getting. Keep watching, It's going to get harder."

(Later, she'll look back and realize his warning was uncharacteristically kind. She'll never be quite sure what to make of it.)

*****

She's making short, sharp little gasps now, because speaking has become quite difficult. He's laced a quarter of the way down, looped it so she can feel some slack, then another set of crossed laces, then another set of loops. There are a few laces to go until he reaches the bottom, and he pulls them through quickly, while she's still staring at herself in surprise. Deftly, he finishes it off with a bow, and turns her slightly so she can look over her shoulder.

"See that? Halfway done."

"Halfway?"

He points to where the two sets of loops are. "I'm going to use those to tighten it completely. Deep breath and breathe out, Alex," he instructs, and as she does, he pulls hard on the bottom two laces, causing her to exhale in a high shriek. "Shhh, it's all right. Look at you, you're doing excellently."

He lets go of the laces, and strokes a thumb down where the corset's covering her stomach. It's flat, almost concave, and with hips like hers, she's never gotten her stomach to do that before. The laces are beautiful, that criss-cross pattern that immediately brings to mind an old style of glamour; narrower at her waist, but wider at the top and bottom.

"What happens when you finish?" she asks, because she has been wondering.

"You mean when you're laced into this completely?" She nods, and he grins wide and shameless. "Then I'm going to see how much I can make you scream while you know that corset won't let you."

She shivers, whispering "oh god", and turning around to kiss him. His mouth is slow and sweet, tongue tracing the outline of her lips and licking delicately at her own tongue. She isn't sure who deepens the kiss, but her tongue wraps around his, forgoing finesse for contact. He moans, and she can feel it all the way down, squirms against him insistently. Her movements become more frantic as she tries to drag air in through her nose, and breaking contact, her mouth. But the corset is like iron around her, squeezing and binding and she can see herself, pale and frantic in the mirror beside them.

"Jim, please-" Gasping, hands balling into fists in his vest. "I, I can't-"

"Yes, you can. Shallow, from your chest. Feel it expand up to your shoulders. Not too fast, now, or you'll hyperventilate and that's no fun at all."

His hand is stroking her hair soothingly, and she tries to breathe as shallowly as possible, relieved when she watches her chest rise and fall in the mirror. Once she's mostly sure she isn't going to pass out and her heartbeat has slowed to normal, she picks her head up from his shoulder, meeting his eyes. Reassuring, yes, but more than that, letting her see what he likes about this scenario. His eyes are dark and glinting, she can feel his gaze on the pushed-up tops of her breasts, her flared hips. She isn't one for aesthetics, but she knows that she looks amazing right now. Women have been fucking in corsets for hundreds of years, and yes, she can see why he wants this so badly.

Control. She may joke and call him DCI Control Freak, but he's one of those people that wields it effortlessly. Where others would quell an unruly suspect with shouts and threats and a knock on the head, Jim just watches them, speaks in a certain tone of voice, and gets what he wants.

And for a girl who likes to act out, likes seeing how far she can push a bloke until he breaks, a man who barely so much as bends is an excellent match.

She turns around wordlessly, leans down to rest her hands on the bedframe and closes her eyes, reminding herself to breathe shallowly. Her back arches, that catlike stretch she likes to do when he fucks her from behind, and he laughs softly at her posing.

"Tease. Trying to distract me?"

Her head tilts, exposing her neck and letting her look back at him from lowered eyes. "Is it working?"

"Well, that depends on if you really want it to work or not," he says, bending over her and wrapping cool fingers around the side of her neck. His middle finger strokes lightly over her throat, making her shiver. "You could distract me, and I'll fuck you like this, on your hands and knees. Or, if you let me finish lacing, I told you, I'll make you scream. Put my mouth to you, lick you up. Would you like that?"

She would, she really would. She's learned never to turn down an opportunity to let Jim Keats put his mouth to use on her, and if she wants to, she can still fuck him later. Now, though, she's kind of curious what it would be like to try and come while laced into a corset. Gasping for breath, needing to get air into her lungs, but almost being unable to.

"Mmm, yes please," she says, feeling the warmth between her legs and the anticipatory shiver in her stomach. "You know I love your mouth."

He kisses the base of her neck, then bites down, hot and wet and hard enough to make her cry out. Just the way she likes it. "Good. Now remember, shallow breaths, you're only going to be getting half the air you usually get if you try a normal one. And I do want to warn you, once I start this bit, I won't stop until and unless you safeword, all right?"

"Yes, Jim."

His thumb strokes along the line of her jaw in response - shorthand for "you're doing well, I'm so pleased" - and he takes hold of the two sets of loops. When she's taken a few breaths, he begins to pull, lacing her tighter (_impossible_, her brain stutters, but she knows the anatomy behind it, knows what a woman's body can take). She can hear her breathing turn into pants, high and gasping and peppered with little cries when he pulls the lacings a particular way. It hurts, but she'd known it would, and she tries to ignore it, focusing on her breathing.

_In - 1, 2, 3 - and out on the pull of the lace. In - 1, 2, 3 - oh, that stings! - and out again._

One last tug - hard and leaving her gasping - and it's done. Neat little bow in the middle of her back and everything. She doesn't even realize her eyes have been shut until she blinks them open and gets her first glimpse in the mirror of herself in a proper corset.

Astonishing might be the word for it.

Everything seems to have gone hazy, like she's been drinking or drugged. But that can't be right, she doesn't use drugs, and she'd barely touched her wine from earlier (and there's a part of her that wonders why she hasn't needed to drink more). She studies herself in the mirror, and it's like a costume drama come to life. Her mouth is open, she notices dimly, lips full and rounded, hair raked back from her face. She looks like any one of the most desperate Victorian streetwalkers she's ever read about, astonishingly filthy under the prim exterior.

"Beautiful. Oh, Alex, completely gorgeous," Jim runs his hands up her sides, savoring the feel of the silk encasing her skin, and drops to lie on his back. "Spread your knees wide - there's a girl - and come up here. No, not that way, turn 'round and face the mirror. I want you to watch yourself."

Her face has got to be crimson, she thinks. She absolutely does not blush, but thinking about what position he's put her into is making her inner good-girl shriek in horror. She straddles his chest and scoots forward like he wanted, and the sheer exposure of it almost has her thinking about safewording. But he knows her, knows what buttons to press, and wraps his hands around her thighs, petting her soothingly. Lets her get used to the position before he runs a finger along her folds, touches his mouth to her, and once he does, she practically melts.

Her hands flail a bit, needing something to do, somewhere to touch to ground herself, and fall onto the bedframe. She drags in a high, shocked breath as his tongue finds the perfect rhythm against her clit, cries out as he digs his nails into her thighs a bit. He's very deliberate about the way he leaves marks, only where they'll know where to find them and only as a reminder of a particular activity. She loves it, though, the little reminder she gets when she dresses for work and sees the bruises or the scratches.

A quick, sharp drag of his teeth against her clit has her shrieking, opening her eyes so that she's looking into the mirror again. She can see her hips moving incessantly against his mouth, shimmying and grinding down, and fuck, she looks absolutely _debauched_. Her lips are bitten red, her breasts rising with each desperate breath, and the most astonishing kind of noises are coming out of her mouth.

"Oh, fuck, Jim - please, you - oh, you need to - yes, please, please - more, yes, like that-"

And suddenly, her brain just switches off, because all she can concentrate on is breathing, dragging enough air into her lungs and the squeeze of the corset when she tries. She's sobbing now, trying and failing to plead with him to let her breathe, make her come, do anything to stop this broken-record feeling of pleasure/pain. The lack of oxygen is starting to have an effect; she's getting that drowning-feeling, breaking out into a fresh sweat and losing focus on her reflection.

No, no, she can't pass out, but she's going to and whether that's before or after she comes is really starting to become the only question. She should safeword, should get in one last breath of air and tell him "ashes". Make it stop.

But everything's narrowed down to his tongue and teeth against her cunt and how she needs more, and he gives it to her, driving her right up to the point of climax. She feels one of his hands trail up her back, and as she feels herself start to come, he pulls once again at the laces. She steels herself for pain - but oh, god, it's loose. Cool, blessed air fills her lungs and she screams, coming hard against his mouth.

As she slumps forward against the bedframe, all she can think is that it looked like the answer to the passing-out question was "after".

*****

Alex wakes up to a cool cloth on her forehead, just the sheet covering her, and a very pleased, very content Jim Keats lying next to her.

"Are you all right?" he asks, brushing the cloth upwards to wash the sweat out of her hairline.

She thinks about her answer - because although there's a part of her screaming about negotiated kink and boundaries and the fact that he scares her sometimes, there's a bigger part that's just astonished at this relationship. That wants to fall at his feet and thank him for being what she needs.

"That was - amazing," she says, curling into the curve of his arms and resting her head on his chest. "I don't think I can put it into words."

He kisses her hair, drags the cloth down her neck and the hollow of her collarbone. "I'm glad. Thank you so much for trusting me, Alex."

"Of course I trust you. I can't think of a single reason why I wouldn't."

She actually can - there's dim memories of a man who used to need her, and copper after copper drawing their last breath and somehow, she knows Jim has something to do with them both - but it's true enough. She trusts him with her body and her mind, more than she's trusted others before him. She might even love him, a little. The fact that that doesn't scare her should be a warning. She hasn't been in love since - since Peter.

He doesn't say anything in return, just holds her tightly, possessively, as if she's going to be taken from him. She once asked him why; he'd gone still and then brushed it off, saying he was just prone to clinginess when he was tired. But he does this almost every night, and she still wonders why.

(If she knew, she'd probably remember why she's here in the first place.

She made her choice. She chose him.

He's still waiting for her to realize what that means.)


End file.
